


Behind the Drawn Curtains

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: DC - Fandom, The Joker - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 17:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows the Joker is dramatic and eye-catchingly stunning in his murders and tortures and games. What happens in his down time, though? What happens when no one stalks his steps?<br/>Even the Joker, in the midst of his very insane life, has sane moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Drawn Curtains

THE JOKER

**  
**

I was on the news again, just a little while ago. It was about some gang member I stabbed. You could practically see the disturbed air about the anchor. She was pretty, but who looks like a bottle of pepto bismol on TV? Really, I should fix that. They’re slacking off in everything nowadays, huh? If someone’s going to tell the world things that keep them up at night, they shouldn’t dress so badly. Even I know that. The Bat got a guy in a nice suit. That’s not even a little bit fair. Maybe I’ll fix him, too.

The raided a dummy hideout of mine, like the idiots they are. I left them laughing gas to lighten the mood. Everyone knows that the only one who can raid one of my places without getting gassed into oblivion is the Bat. Assholes, treating me like an ametuer. Ah well.

At least they’re smiling now.

I need to leave though, because the Bat’s on his way, and I hate being late for anything, but especially the Bat. I slip farther into the alley to the Honda Accord in the back. It’s a piece of junk car, and it’s not at all flashy. Neither are the washed out, nondescript, too-poor-to-go-to-anywhere-but-the-thrift-store clothes I put on. I pull up the grungy hoody after I hide most of my hair in a threadbare beanie.

I reach into the trunk for just one more thing: a makeup kit. I sit in the drivers seat and start by changing the color of my skin to something closer to normal. I change the color of my eyebrows to mud brown and stare in the mirror in order to darken the color of my teeth. A couple of “cavities” go into the molars, but I don’t bother with fake caps, this time. I look at my hands and make sure to get all the makeup off with the germ-X in the kit. No need to give myself away because I couldn’t be bothered to cover my tracks.  

That done, I stoop and shuffle, getting used to the new posture while I stuff my other clothing into a bag and leave it in an unattended to trash can. I can get it later. Or I won’t. It hardly matters.

Clothes burn, after all.

I get dirt onto the bottoms of my pants and the tops of my shoes. These clothes aren’t clean. In fact, they smell. They’re supposed to. It’s the final touch. I get into the car and adjust the seat for the final time. I take a breath and slip into the persona of a washed out man in a piece of shit car with no where to go but six feet down.

I drive like I need to keep the car (I don’t, but the original did) and merge undramatically into traffic. That’s the key, of course. Everyone knows I like a show. I drive right pass my latest play ground and keep going, not sparing more than a cursory glance for the body of the gangster. The little fuck shouldn’t have tried to get away from me.

He never promised and signed confidentiality, after all.

Quickly, the grungy neighborhood gets grungier and more derelict. There’s more bodies on the street than there are in the buildings. I can practically smell their deaths. It doesn’t bother me though. After all, I’ve brought about many of them.

I pull up in front of a drughouse, get out, and lock the doors. It’ll only take a moment to get what I need. I pay my admission and follow my guide to an empty room. They’re getting baked in here. I move past  the doorway, and the guy follows me.

“Hey man, I told you, all the roo-” I twist his neck far enough to feel the snap and catch the body, making sure it doesn’t make a thump. I fix his neck and leave him leaning against the wall, looking like he’s sleeping. I move to the end of the hallway and locate what I’m looking for: a metal lockbox beneath the floorboards.

I find the key beneath another one and unlock the box, removing several thousand dollars in cash and a couple of 24 bit flash drives. It all goes into my layers before I put back the box, the key, the floorboards, and the hammer I used to loosen the nails. Wait. I stash that too.

I leave by the back door, and don’t meet anyone on the way.

I walk down the many alleys, but it’s dark now, so there’s really not much to see. Besides, these people know better than to be out at night. The ghetto disappears into a train yard, and I make my way through it. This time, it’s better to simply not be seen than it is to kill. Less evidence, that way.

It takes me no less than two hours to make it to the alleys between the large, waterfront complexes. It’s got many people in it, and even though it’s just after ten in the evening, a little girl who should be asleep wanders across my path, a little surprised to see me, but not really caring. Who taught this kid self preservation? I can’t leave witnesses when I’m not playing. If I break her neck, they’ll link the murders. I don’t leave trails. Not in this state. I make a snap decision.  As soon as she makes her way out of the security camera’s range, I drag her by her neck and cut across her wrist.

I don’t get any blood on me, nor do I allow myself to smile. I can’t get carried away. I’m going to be late. As I watch her move around limply, I remember why I ever stopped being low key in the first place.

I’ve killed so much that the act itself is so, so dull. It’s nothing to watch this brat bleed out. It was nothing to stab that fuck or break the other one’s neck. Not even torture holds much gleam for me anymore.

It’s my own head that makes it fun. It’s all the little what-ifs that I turn into a reality that makes it work. For instance, what if Batman had a clue? What if the Bat found out about a not so strange murder in the ghetto? What if Gordon actually knew how to contain me? What if my world was a game of riddles, and all I needed to do was dispense them?

My what ifs keep me from losing my edge. The kid stopped moving. I keep going.

I make it through the complex and over the fence on the other side before I find myself in an alley between two warehouses. There it is: my destination. I don’t show my face to any camera as I board my ship. This is my newest hideout.

In the captain’s cabin, I sit down, pull out a map of gotham, and mark where I killed. Then I start to think. What if...

****  


**Author's Note:**

> So, would you believe this? I'd love to know how on (or off) the mark I was. Please comment!


End file.
